Beside me, he leans closer so he can see what I’m doing, pressing the heels of both hands on the desktop, his fingers trailing over the edge.
I glance at them, and a sensation of heat compresses my insides, funnelling all the warmth in my body between my legs.
I can’t concentrate.
“What am I looking at?” he says, and as he leans over my shoulder, I’m hit with a waft of his post-workout smell.
The scent of his exertion is so familiar that a swirling dizziness whooshes through me.Tangled sheets, sweat-slicked skin, hot breath, soft lips. And his hands, everywhere.
I want to inhale until my lungs pop, or get to my knees, slide my palms up his muscular thighs, and beg him formore. Instead, I take a few rapid breaths in an attempt to steady myself. I had no idea being this close to him would make me feel so frenzied.
It’s not supposed to feel like this.
Or maybe it’s supposed to feelexactlylike this.
I clench my fists and flex my fingers as I prepare to get started.
“I… uh… here…” I raise a shaky finger to the screen, where I’ve put my anticipated income. “And then over here…” I shift across to the expenditure. His face is so close to mine, I can hear the low rustle of his breathing in my ear.
I turn my head the tiniest bit and watch him, so intent and focused on the computer screen. Only a few inches keep me from feeling the gentle scrape of his stubble against my skin. The craziest urge to nuzzle against it possesses me.
He tilts his head in my direction, like he knows I’m no longer concentrating on the computer. Our eyes lock. And I meanlock. I’m frozen, staring into those dark pools the way I did when I orgasmed in his arms.
He doesn’t move, and although I’m sure it’s only seconds, it feels like it stretches well beyond the bounds of socially acceptable. His gaze slips to my mouth and bounces back up.
“Sorry,” he says, blinking and swiping his tongue over his lips as he steps back. “I didn’t mean to put you off. I couldn’t see the screen properly.” He points at the splintering cracks that radiate from the bottom left corner. “What happened to it?”
“I dropped it,” I lie. “I’d get it repaired, but…” I curse under my breath, hoping he can’t hear. I point to the profit column. “I wasn’t expecting to show you this. It’s messy, but here”—I indicate the profits column—“I’ve squeezed out five hundred quid.”
“By mid-December,” he adds.
I swallow. “Yes.”
He scratches his eyebrow. “That’s when Lizzie leaves for South America,” he says, his voice devoid of emotion. “I understood you were going to move out when she did. How will you do that with no income?”
Oh, God. He wants me out. And soon. And why wouldn’t he? I’m nothisfriend. He’s probably counting down the days untilhe can get rid of me. But realistically, how am I going to manage it?
I say nothing. This is awful. I had sex with this man, he has no idea, and now he’s talking to me like I’m stupid. Which I probably am.
“You can’t launch a business like this unless you have savings,” he continues. “Or investors. Where’s your capital coming from?”
I’m starting to numb out under the pressure of his questions. I sound hollow when I admit, “I don’t have any.”
“But here.” He points to a column on the screen where I’ve noted a new digital camera and tripod, as well as the special edition copies of the books Dad destroyed. “You’ve got costs for equipment.” He runs his index finger down the entire list, then folds his arms over his chest and tips his chin towards my spreadsheet. “You’ve got two thousand pounds of expenditure. Forgive me, but if you have no savings, how were you going to afford this?”
“I used to get sent a lot of them for free.” I press my hand to my face and lower my head, letting out a tiny whimper, wishing I could yell at Lizzie for springing this on me and making me look like a fucking idiot in front of her dad. “But now I’ve got no platform. Everything I built up is gone.”
He leans against the desk and stares down at me. “Lizzie told me you made videos. Created content?”
“Yes.”
“And you showed your face?”
I nod.
“So, whether or not you still have a platform doesn't matter,” he continues. “You have your face. That’s how people know who you are, and that familiarity is where trust lies.”
I struggle not to grimace at the weird parallels he’s unknowingly drawing with our situation.
